by Tarah Scott
His protection should be enough, dammit. So why am I recalling him telling Miss Mack he isn’t available, and hating the mystery woman who holds his affection? His attitude during sparring had been as intense as usual, but without a hint of the dragon fire I touched that first day.
“His change of heart is not,” I say with vehemence intended to drown the fear twisting like a snake inside my belly, “because he agrees with Raith that I’m a bad seed.”
I sit upright. Maybe he told Miss Mack he’s unavailable in order to save her feelings? Oh God, that would only mean his change of attitude toward me isn’t because he has someone else. I lay back down and release a breath. Fuck, I’m acting like a lovesick teenager. If Stony were here, she would make so much fun of me.
I don’t need Ethan Bordeau, Blade Tyrion or Raith Vanderkoff. The wargames are three days away. I have to admit, I’m looking forward to the games. We’re supposed to train hard these next two days in preparation. Which only means more time with Ethan. An odd sense of déjà vu washes over me and a watery picture springs to mind filled with images that press against my consciousness like an insistent itch just out of reach. I tell myself not to reach for the picture, but it’s impossible not to and the picture vanishes. The itch intensifies.
I jump from the bed, cross to the window, and gaze across the southern part of the campus. In the distance, I can just make out the bridge connecting Westchester and Rockland counties.
Think about something else, anything else other than this place.
My home. The home I won’t let anyone take from me.
Who besides The Three and the Grand Witch know what’s going on with Grams’ investigation? I learned of Grams’ death through the grapevine. The death of a powerful witch is big news, especially when people believe she committed suicide—and consorted with Shadows. A thought occurs. The Three told me there was no body, yet there has to be an ME’s report to confirm suicide. Without a body, the Illumina had to call in some serious favors in high places to get the ME to sign off on a fake death certificate.
The police… I had put off contacting the police about Grams’ death. Guilt stabs. Did a part of me believe that Grams might have committed suicide? I shove the thought aside. Damn. The Illumina—and The Three—have gotten inside my head.
I need to visit the police ASAP and get a copy of the ME’s report, if there is one. Disquiet tightens my stomach. Margiddians are taught early on not to involve people without magical abilities in our business. Death, however, isn’t easy to hide from the mundane world. We all know that. While the general population isn’t aware of what we are, some individuals high up the food chain do know of our existence.
Grams kept me ignorant of specific connections and warned me to keep quiet about what I am. Just who up the food chain knows of Margidda? Police Chief, mayor, governor…president? How many details concerning Grams’ death had the Illumina shared with those in the know? Maybe if I shake that tree, someone of interest will fall out. Once I prove Grams isn’t guilty of treason, the Illumina won’t be able to stop me from taking possession of the house. I’ll be able to put her to rest, and squash this fucking self-doubt that’s eating its way through my brain.
Pursuing that line of action is a moot point. My keepers have locked me up good and tight. There will be no crawling out my window or the window in the girl’s restroom. Even if I wanted to rappel from my window to the ground, the magic surrounding my room would knock me on my ass—as it did the two times I’ve tried.
What kind of fucked up school is this? I’ve heard rumors about students who entered and never left. Were they murdered? The words of the song Hotel California come to mind: ‘You can check in, but you can never leave.’
A shiver snakes down my back. Is Blade right? Is Jennifer Hanson too gutless to attempt murder? She belongs to the mean-girl club, and those chicks can be pretty ruthless. Not long before Grams kicked me out, I heard of a group of white cheerleaders who beat a black girl so badly they put her in the hospital, all because the boys from the football team were flirting with her. Thankfully, the girls were arrested. At least, there’s a smidgen of justice in the world.
The door handle jiggles. I whirl. I have no pending class. Does Raith intend to free me, or… The knob slowly turns. The latch disengages and the door swings open a few inches. I glance at the swords, too far away for me to reach before the door opens. Fingers curve around the edge of the door, which opens farther. Eyes peek around the door and I recognize the thirteen-year-old kid.
I blow out a loud breath. “What the hell are you doing here, kid?”
He shrugs.
“You don’t know what you’re doing here?”
He shakes his head.
“You’ll get in trouble for being here.”
He nods.
I scowl. “Get out of here.”
He hesitates, then starts to back away.
A thought hits me. “Hey, how did you get past Blade’s spell?”
“Easy,” he replies.
“Easy, how?”
“I redirected the spell to the empty room next door.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
He shakes his head.
“Is Blade’s magic that easy to get around?” I murmur. Or am I just that inept?
“No way,” the kid says. “Blade’s magic is pretty invincible.”
“Not so invincible. A thirteen-year-old kid circumvented the spell,” I say.
“I’m twelve.”
I snort. “A tween. That’s even worse.”
He shakes his head. “I’m using Blade’s magic against him.”
“What do you mean?”
“The spell I used to redirect his spell is magic I learned from Blade. He probably didn’t think anyone would use what he taught against him.”
“Well, fuck a duck.” I laugh. “I bet he didn’t.” The irony is just too damn good. “Still, you better get out of here. Blade might give you points for ingenuity. Raith won’t. Not to mention, he’ll force you to tell him why you’re here. Did some of the other students put you up in this? They’re not doing you any favors by tricking you into breaking into my room.”
He shakes his head. “No one put me up to coming here. I—” He hesitates, and I realize he’s embarrassed.
I groan inwardly. Don’t tell me the kid has a crush on me. All I need is some lovesick tween following me around.
“I wanted to say thanks,” he says.
“Thanks?” I frown. “Thanks for what?”
“For saving my life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You pushed me out of the way of that spear.”
I had forgotten. He’d jumped in front of me. “That was brave, kid, but a little stupid.”
His eyes drop. “It’s my fault you got hurt.”
“It’s only your fault if you’re the one who sicked the spear on me. Did you try to kill me?”
His head snaps up, eyes wide. “Oh, no. I would never do that. It’s my fault because I got in the way and you had to push me aside. That left you vulnerable.”
I release a breath. “It’s not your fault. The magic in the spear was very powerful. I wasn’t getting out of that room”–I start to say ‘alive,’ but say—“unhurt,” instead.
He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. You used magic despite having Mr. Bordeau’s sigil on your hand. If I hadn’t gotten in the way, you would have beaten the spear.”
I laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Jonas.”
“Well, Jonas. If nothing else, you’re great for my ego.” I study him. “You said you redirected Blade’s magic. Does that mean I can get out of here?”
His face brightens. “Oh, yeah.”
I cross to the door. He takes an uncertain step back when I clap a hand on his shoulder and step over the threshold. “Jonas, you may regret this, but you’re my new best friend.”
Chapter Thirty
LEILAH
The Polic
e
I send Jonas back to his room with the promise that I won’t rat him out to Blade, then quickly draw the curtains and arranged pillows beneath the blanket to look like a sleeping body.
An hour later, I get out of a cab in front of the White Plains police station. Pound Ridge doesn’t list any homicide detectives, so I’m figuring the bigger city of White Plains handled Grams’ case. They ruled the case suicide, but a detective had to investigate to come to that conclusion. I enter the station and go through security, then approach the front desk where a balding police officer sits.
He looks up from some paperwork and says, “Can I help you?”
“I would like to speak to the detective investigating my grandmother’s death,” I say.
Surprise flickers in his eyes, but he says in a neutral voice, “Who’s your grandmother?”
“Miriam Crowe.”
This time, the surprise in his eyes is almost palpable. “Hold on.” He picks up the phone and says, “Lynn, do we have someone investigating the death of a Miriam Crowe?”
Someone speaks on the other end of the phone, but I can’t discern the words.
“Uh huh,” the cop says. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He nods as if the person on the other end of the phone can see him, then hangs up and looks at me. “Miriam Crowe’s death was ruled a suicide. The case is closed.”
“Does that mean the detective who investigated the case won’t talk to me?”
“Detectives are too busy to spend time on cases that are already solved,” he says.
“Who’s the detective?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he grunts.
“I’m her granddaughter.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, but I don’t detect any empathy in his voice.
“Who’s the detective?” I ask again.
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter. Now, get going.”
I nod slowly. “I bet they’ll know down at the paper.”
He frowns. “Paper? What paper?”
“The Journal News, New York Times.”
He sneers. “We don’t report to the newspapers.”
“They’ll look into the matter for me.”
I turn and get half a dozen steps before he says, “Wait a minute.”
I stop and face him.
“Maybe a detective can talk to you—for a couple minutes.”
Five minutes later, a tall man about fifty years old is showing me to a desk in a room that contains about half a dozen desks.
He sits in a chair behind one of the desks and I take the chair opposite him as he says, “I’m Detective Moore. What can I do for you?”
“Are you the detective who investigated my grandmother’s death?”
He nods. “You’re her granddaughter, Leilah Crowe? You ran away from home seven years ago.”
I blink. “Ran away? Who told you that?”
“Neighbors. How did you hear of her death?”
I smile. “Neighbors.”
His gaze hardens. “If you’re after the estate, you have to talk to an attorney. We don’t handle that.”
I go cold. “If I was after her estate, I would have it. I would like to see your report.”
His brows shoot up. “The White Plains Police Department isn’t in the habit of sharing internal investigation reports. You can request the autopsy report from the medical examiner. There’s a form on the ME’s website.”
I nod. “As next of kin, I have the right to see the report you gave.”
“I don’t know who told you that.”
“It’s New York state law,” I reply. That’s a lie—well, maybe it’s not a lie, but I found no laws governing the next of kin’s right to see a homicide report when I searched the web on the cab ride over.
He shrugs. “You’re mistaken.”
I stand. “Can I quote you to the reporter at the New York Times?”
His mouth thins, but he gives a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t make the law.”
I turn and head for the door. I reach the front entryway a minute later and push through the exterior door. A woman calls, “Ms. Crowe.”
I step back and turn. A fortyish woman wearing slacks and a long-sleeved, white, button-down shirt is standing at the same door I just exited.
“Do you have a moment?” she asks.
I nod and approach her. She allows me to precede her through the door, then I follow her back down the hallway and past the desk were Detective Moore sits. The office door she opens sports a plaque that reads Sgt. Decker. I enter and she closes the door after me.
“Have a seat,” she says, and sits behind the desk.
I take the chair in front of her desk.
“I’m Detective Mills. Detective Moore tells me you’ve asked to see the report concerning your grandmother’s death,” she says. “As he told you, by law, we are not required to turn over the report to you.”
“Then what am I doing here?” I ask.
She leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Ms. Crowe, I understand you need closure, but, please, take my word, this is not the way to achieve it.”
“Take your word? Why should I?”
“Because the details in the detective’s report would dredge up more emotions than answers.” She leans back in her chair. “I understand you and your grandmother were estranged.”
“If you think you can make me feel guilty, don’t bother. It was my grandmother who kicked me out when I was fifteen.”
Her brows raise, but her eyes betray knowledge. So, the sergeant knows more than she’s letting on. That’s nothing new for the police. I can’t blame them. Just because I operate outside the law doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the law’s perspective—not to mention, it isn’t their laws I’m breaking. From a human perspective, I’m a straight arrow. It’s not like they would believe that I make magical disguises that hide wanted criminals from their direct sight. The fact I haven’t broken any human laws is moot, though. Whoever’s in the know will alert the Illumina of my actions. Let’s see how the Illumina likes me talking to the cops.
“I know my grandmother,” I say. “She’s not the kind who would commit suicide.”
“You were fifteen when you left,” the sergeant says. “No offense, Ms. Crowe, but teenagers don’t really know their guardians. Not to mention, you’ve been gone seven years. People change.”
“What evidence is there for suicide?” I demand.
“She was found dead in her bed with an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand.”
I wonder if Detective Mills knows there was no body, or if she’s merely repeating what she read on the report. “You know my grandmother was a practicing witch?” Let’s see if that gets anyone’s attention.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “My niece practices Wicca.”
“My grandmother was a bit more than a practicing Wiccan. She was a powerful psychic.” Psychic abilities usually go hand in hand with powerful magic, but we’re taught from childhood to explain away our powers as simply being psychic. “She wouldn’t take drugs,” I say. “They…alter psychic abilities.”
“Ms. Crowe, people who decide to commit suicide are no longer thinking clearly. They care only about the final results.”
She has me there.
“I assume the medical examiner’s report will detail the drugs in her body,” I say.
The sergeant shakes her head. “We found no sign of foul play. Given her age and the pills, we found no reason to order an autopsy.”
That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I underestimated the Illumina.
I need to search the house, as well as check on Stony. Still, I can’t leave here empty-handed. Is it possible for me to push through Ethan’s sigil and cast a truth spell on the sergeant? The sigil didn’t stop me from leaving The Academy, but I suspect that the instant I try to cast a spell, the dragon’s magic will light me up like a firecracker and drag my ass back. I shudder to think how much stronger the spell on my next jail cell will be.
> “I believe I’ll have that talk with the New York Times,” I say.
The sergeant angles her head in ascent. “That is your right, of course.”
Damn, she called my bluff. Then again, it’s a thin bluff.
I stand. “Tell your bosses that an interview with the Times will be the least of their worries.”
She rises. “I will convey your message.”
I hesitate, itching to cast a truth spell on her.
The sergeant escorts me from her office and, when we reach the front, she pulls a card from her jacket pocket and writes a number on the back. She hands me the card. “Call me if you feel the need to talk. That’s my private number.”
I glance at the number in surprise. Private number? Cops don’t usually give out their private numbers.
I meet her gaze. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Chapter Thirty-One
LEILAH
Grandmothers and spell books
I arrive at Grams’ house forty minutes later and hurry up the front porch steps. Anticipation hums through me at the thought of seeing Stony. I miss her so much. I reach the door and sense Grams’ strong wards pushing back. I wonder again how the stranger got into her house—and worse, that damned green demon.
I push through the door and call out, “Stony, I’m hooome.”
Silence follows.
“Stony?” I take half a dozen steps across the foyer and enter the living room.
Furniture still lies overturned and destroyed, the destruction untouched in the room after the demon attack. Only the green goo is gone. No sign of Stony. I search the kitchen. Empty Chinese food cartons litter the floor near the rear door. Blade has kept his word and fed her, and she’s been eating. So, where is she?
I return to the foyer and head upstairs. I bet she shifted into a dog or cat and climbed the stairs to one of the bedrooms. I enter my old room first and stop cold. The room is a time capsule, frozen on the day I left. My old gym sneakers lie against the wall near the small desk where I did most of my homework. Even my old chemistry textbook lays open to—I cross to the desk—yes, the page on human genome. At fifteen, I wouldn’t have admitted it to my friends, but I loved the sciences.